GEORGE  HOLMES  HOWISON 


A 


<A  FEW  FIGS  FROM  THISTLES 

POEMS  AND  SONNETS 


BY   THE   SAME   AUTHOR 

THE    HARP-WEAVER    AND    OTHER    POEMS 

RENASCENCE    AND    OTHER   POEMS 

SECOND    APRIL 


THREE    PLAYS 
ARIA   DA   CAPO 

TWO   SLATTERNS   AND    A   KING 

THE   LAMP   AND   THE   BELL 

THE    KING'S    HENCHMAN 


A  FEW  FIGS 
FROM  THISTLES 

POEMS  AND  SONNETS 

BY 

EDNA  ST.  VINCENT  MILLAY 


HARPER  &.  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 
NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 


A    FEW    FIGS    FROM    THISTLES 

COPYRIGHT,    192.?.,    BY    GE*NA    ST.    VINCENT   MILLAY 
PRIN1ED    IN    THE    UNITED    STATES    OF    AMERICA 


L-L 

T 


\\         •  *  {  •  ^ 

\       \V     <s->       <.     **    0~^         *  i 


Thanks  are  due  to  the  editors  of  Ainslie"  s,  The  Dial,  Pear-    /VJA  j^x/ 
son's,  Poetry,  Reedy' s  Mirror,  and  Vanity  fair  for  their  kind 
permission  to  republish  various  of  these  poems. 

This  edition  of  "A  Few  Figs  from  Tbitfles"  contains  several 
poems  not  included  in  earlier  editions. 


986781 


CONTENTS 

FIRST   FIG  I 

SECOND   FIG  I 

RECUERDO  2. 

THURSDAY  4 

TO   THE   NOT   IMPOSSIBLE    HIM  5 

MACDOUGAL   STREET  6 
THE  SINGING- WOMAN  FROM  THE  WOOD*S  EDGE        8 

SHE   IS   OVERHEARD   SINGING  II 

THE   PRISONER  14 

THE    UNEXPLORER  15 

GROWN-UP  1 6 

THE   PENITENT  17 

DAPHNE  19 

PORTRAIT   BY   A    NEIGHBOR  2.O 

MIDNIGHT   OIL  2.2. 

THE   MERRY   MAID  2.3 

TO   KATHLEEN  2.4 

TO   S.    M.  2.5 

THE   PHILOSOPHER  2.6 

SONNET Love,  Though  for  This  2.J 

SONNET 1  Think  I  Should  Have  Loved  You  30 

SONNET Oh,  Think  Not  I  am  Faithful  3  I 

SONNET 1  Shall  Forget  You  Presently  32. 


FEW  FIGS  FROM  THISTLES 


FIRST  FIG  - 


MY  CANDLE  burns  at  both  ends; 

It  will  not  last  the  night; 
But  ah,  my  foes,  and  oh,  my  friends — 

It  gives  a  lovely  light ! 


SECOND  FIG. 

SAFE  upon  the  solid  rock  the  ugly  houses  stand : 
Come  and  see  my  shining  palace  built  upon  the  sand ! 


RECUERDO 

WERE  very  tired,  we  were  very  merry — 
We  had  gone  back  and  forth  all  night  on  the  ferry. 
It  was  bare  and  bright,  and  smelled  like  a  stable — 
But  we  looked  into  a  fire,  we  leaned  across  a  table, 
We  lay  on  the  hill-top  underneath  the  moon; 
And  the  whistles  kept  blowing,  and  the  dawn  came 
soon. 

We  were  very  tired,  we  were  very  merry — 

We  had  gone  back  and  forth  all  night  on  the  ferry; 

And  you  ate  an  apple,  and  I  ate  a  pear, 

From  a  dozen  of  each  we  had  bought  somewhere; 

And  the  sky  went  wan,  and  the  wind  came  cold, 

And  the  sun  rose  dripping,  a  bucketful  of  gold. 

We  were  very  tired,  we  were  very  merry, 

We  had  gone  back  and  forth  all  night  on  the  ferry. 

We  hailed,  "Good  morrow,  mother!"  to  a  shawl- 
covered  head, 

And  bought  a  morning  paper,  which  neither  of  us 
read; 


And  she  wept,  "God  bless  you!"  for  the  apples  and 

the  pears, 
And  we  gave  her  all  our  money  but  our  subway 

fares. 


-     THURSDAY 

AND  if  I  loved  you  Wednesday, 

Well,  what  is  that  to  you? 
I  do  not  love  you  Thursday — 

So  much  is  true. 

And  why  you  come  complaining 

Is  more  than  I  can  see. 
I  loved  you  Wednesday, — yes — but  what 

Is  that  to  me  ? 


TO  THE  NOT  IMPOSSIBLE  HIM 

How  shall  I  know,  unless  I  go 

To  Cairo  and  Cathay, 
Whether  or  not  this  blessed  spot 

Is  blest  in  every  way? 

Now  it  may  be,  the  flower  for  me 

Is  this  beneath  my  nose; 
How  shall  I  tell,  unless  I  smell 

The  Carthaginian  rose  ? 

The  fabric  of  my  faithful  love 
No  power  shall  dim  or  ravel 

Whilst  I  stay  here, —  but  oh,  my  dear, 
If  I  should  ever  travel! 


MACDOUGAL  STREET 

As  I  went  walking  up  and  down  to  take  the  even 
ing  air, 
(Sweet  to  meet  upon  the  street,  why  must  I  be 

so  shy?) 

I  saw  him  lay  his  hand  upon  her  torn  black  hair; 
("Little  dirty  Latin  child,  let  the  lady  by!") 

The  women  squatting  on  the  stoops  were  slovenly 
and  fat, 

(Lay  me  out  in  organdie,  lay  me  out  in  lawn !) 
And  everywhere  I  stepped  there  was  a  baby  or  a  cat; 

(Lord,  God  in  Heaven,  will  it  never  be  dawn  ?) 

The  fruit-carts  and  clam-carts  were  ribald  as  a  fair, 
(Pink  nets  and  wet  shells  trodden  under  heel) 

She  had  haggled  from  the  fruit-man  of  his  rotting 

ware; 
(I  shall  never  get  to  sleep,  the  way  I  feel!) 

He  walked  like  a  king  through  the  filth  and  the 
clutter, 


(Sweet  to  meet  upon  the  street,  why  did  you 

glance  me  by?) 
But  he  caught  the  quaint  Italian  quip  she  flung 

him  from  the  gutter; 
(What  can  there  be  to  cry  about  that  I  should  lie 

and  cry?) 

He  laid  his  darling  hand  upon  her  little  black  head, 
(I  wish  I  were  a  ragged  child  with  ear-rings  in  my 

ears !) 
And  he  said  she  was  a  baggage  to  have  said  what 

she  had  said; 
(Truly  I  shall  be  ill  unless  I  stop  these  tears!) 


THE  SINGING-WOMAN  FROM  THE 
WOOD'S  EDGE 

\VHAT  should  I  be  but  a  prophet  and  a  liar, 
Whose  mother  was  a  leprechaun,  whose  father  was 

a  friar? 

Teethed  on  a  crucifix  and  cradled  under  water, 
What  should  I  be  but  the  fiend's  god-daughter? 

And  who  should  be  my  playmates  but  the  adder 

and  the  frog, 
That  was  got  beneath  a  furze-bush  and  born  in  a 

bog? 
And  what  should  be  my  singing,  that  was  christened 

at  an  altar, 
But  Aves  and  Credos  and  Psalms  out  of  the  Psalter? 

You  will  see  such  webs  on  the  wet  grass,  maybe, 
As  a  pixie-mother  weaves  for  her  baby, 
You  will  find  such  flame  at  the  wave's  weedy  ebb 
As  flashes  in  the  meshes  of  a  mer-mother's  web, 

\ 


But  there  comes  to  birth  no  common  spawn 
From  the  love  of  a  priest  for  a  leprechaun, 
And  you  never  have  seen  and  you  never  will  see 
Such  things  as  the  things  that  swaddled  me! 

After  all's  said  and  after  all's  done, 
What  should  I  be  but  a  harlot  and  a  nun? 

In  through  the  bushes,  on  any  foggy  day, 

My  Da  would  come  a-swishing  of  the  drops  away, 

With  a  prayer  for  my  death  and  a  groan  for  my 

birth, 
A-mumbling  of  his  beads  for  all  that  he  was  worth. 

And  there  sit  my  Ma,  her  knees  beneath  her  chin, 
A-looking  in  his  face  and  a-drinking  of  it  in, 
And  a-marking  in  the  moss  some  funny  little  saying 
That  would  mean  just  the  opposite  of  all  that  he 
was  praying! 

He  taught  me  the  holy-talk  of  Vesper  and  of  Matin, 
He  heard  me  my  Greek  and  he  heard  me  my  Latin, 
He  blessed  me  and  crossed  me  to  keep  my  soul  from 

evil, 
And  we  watched  him  out  of  sight,  and  we  conjured 

up  the  devil! 


Oh,  the  things  I  haven't  seen  and  the  things  I 

haven't  known, 
What  with   hedges   and   ditches  till   after  I  was 

grown, 
And  yanked  both  ways  by  my  mother  and  my 

father, 
With  a  "Which  would  you  better?"  and  a  "Which 

would  you  rather?" 

With  him  for  a  sire  and  her  for  a  dam, 
What  should  I  be  but  just  what  I  am? 


10 


SHE  IS  OVERHEARD  SINGING 

OH,  PRUE  she  has  a  patient  man, 

And  Joan  a  gentle  lover, 
And  Agatha's  Arth'  is  a  hug-the-hearth, — 

But  my  true  love's  a  rover! 

Mig,  her  man's  as  good  as  cheese 

And  honest  as  a  briar, 
Sue  tells  her  love  what  he's  thinking  of, — 

But  my  dear  lad's  a  liar! 

Oh,  Sue  and  Prue  and  Agatha 

Are  thick  with  Mig  and  Joan! 
They  bite  their  threads  and  shake  their  heads 

And  gnaw  my  name  like  a  bone; 

And  Prue  says,  "Mine's  a  patient  man, 

As  never  snaps  me  up," 
And  Agatha,  "Arth'  is  a  hug-the-hearth, 

Could  live  content  in  a  cup," 


Sue's  man's  mind  is  like  good  jell — 

All  one  color,  and  clear — 
And  Mig's  no  call  to  think  at  all 

What's  to  come  next  year, 

While  Joan  makes  boast  of  a  gentle  lad, 
That's  troubled  with  that  and  this; — 

But  they  all  would  give  the  life  they  live 
For  a  look  from  the  man  I  kiss! 

Cold  he  slants  his  eyes  about, 

And  few  enough's  his  choice, — 
Though  he'd  slip  me  clean  for  a  nun,  or  a  queen, 

Or  a  beggar  with  knots  in  her  voice, — 

And  Agatha  will  turn  awake 

When  her  good  man  sleeps  sound, 
And  Mig  and  Sue  and  Joan  and  Prue 

Will  hear  the  clock  strike  round, 

For  Prue  she  has  a  patient  man, 

As  asks  not  when  or  why, 
And  Mig  and  Sue  have  naught  to  do 

But  peep  who's  passing  by, 


12 


Joan  is  paired  with  a  putterer 
That  bastes  and  tastes  and  salts, 

And  Agatha's  Arth'  is  a  hug-the-hearth, — 
But  my  true  love  is  false! 


THE  PRISONER 

ALL  right, 

Go  ahead! 

What's  in  a  name? 

I  guess  I'll  be  locked  into 

As  much  as  I'm  locked  out  of! 


THE  UNEXPLORER 

THERE  was  a  road  ran  past  our  house 

Too  lovely  to  explore. 

I  asked  my  mother  once — she  said 

That  if  you  followed  where  it  led 

It  brought  you  to  the  milk-man's  door. 

(That's  why  I  have  not  traveled  more  * 


GROWN-UP 

WAS  it  for  this  I  uttered  prayers, 

And  sobbed  and  cursed  and  kicked  the  stairs, 

That  now,  domestic  as  a  plate, 

I  should  retire  at  half-past  eight? 


16 


THE  PENITENT 

I  HAD  a  little  Sorrow, 

Born  of  a  little  Sin, 
I  found  a  room  all  damp  with  gloom 

And  shut  us  all  within; 
And,  "Little  Sorrow,  weep,"  said  I, 
"And,  Little  Sin,  pray  God  to  die, 
And  I  upon  the  floor  will  lie 

And  think  how  bad  I've  been!" 

Alas  for  pious  planning — 

It  mattered  not  a  whit! 
As  far  as  gloom  went  in  that  room, 

The  lamp  might  have  been  lit! 
My  Little  Sorrow  would  not  weep, 
My  Little  Sin  would  go  to  sleep — 
To  save  my  soul  I  could  not  keep 

My  graceless  mind  on  it! 

So  up  I  got  in  anger, 
And  took  a  book  I  had, 


\     And  put  a  ribbon  on  my  hair 

To  please  a  passing  lad. 
And,  "One  thing  there's  no  getting  by- 
Fve  been  a  wicked  girl,"  said  I; 
"But  if  I  can't  be  sorry,  why, 

I  might  as  well  be  glad!" 


DAPHNE 

do  you  follow  me? — 
Any  moment  I  can  be 
Nothing  but  a  laurel-tree. 

Any  moment  of  the  chase 
I  can  leave  you  in  my  place 
A  pink  bough  for  your  embrace. 

Yet  if  over  hill  and  hollow 
Still  it  is  your  will  to  follow, 
I  am  off; — to  heel,  Apollo! 


PORTRAIT  BY  A  NEIGHBOR 

BEFORE  she  has  her  floor  swept 

Or  her  dishes  done, 
Any  day  you'll  find  her 

A-sunning  in  the  sun ! 

It's  long  after  midnight 

Her  key's  in  the  lock, 
And  you  never  see  her  chimney  smoke 

Till  past  ten  o'clock! 

-' 

She  digs  in  her  garden 

With  a  shovel  and  a  spoon, 
She  weeds  her  lazy  lettuce 
By  the  light  of  the  moon. 

She  walks  up  the  walk 
Like  a  woman  in  a  dream, 

She  forgets  she  borrowed  butter 
And  pays  you  back  cream! 


20 


t 
Her  lawn  looks  like  a  meadow, 

And  if  she  mows  the  place 
She  leaves  the  clover  standing 
And  the  Queen  Anne's  lace! 


21 


MIDNIGHT  OIL 

CUT  if  you  will,  with  Sleep's  dull  knife, 
Each  day  to  half  its  length,  my  friend,- 
The  years  that  Time  takes  off  my  life, 
He'll  take  from  off  the  other  end ! 


22 


THE  MERRY  MAID 

OH,  I  am  grown  so  free  from  care 

Since  my  heart  broke! 
I  set  my  throat  against  the  air, 

I  laugh  at  simple  folk! 

There's  little  kind  and  little  fair 
Is  worth  its  weight  in  smoke 

To  me,  that's  grown  so  free  from  care 
Since  my  heart  broke! 

Lass,  if  to  sleep  you  would  repair 

As  peaceful  as  you  woke, 
Best  not  besiege  your  lover  there 

For  just  the  words  he  spoke 
To  me,  that's  grown  so  free  from  care 

Since  my  heart  broke! 


TO  KATHLEEN 

STILL  must  the  poet  as  of  old, 
In  barren  attic  bleak  and  cold, 
Starve,  freeze,  and  fashion  verses  to 
Such  things  as  flowers  and  song  and  you; 

Still  as  of  old  his  being  give 

In  Beauty's  name,  while  she  may  live, 

Beauty  that  may  not  die  as  long 

As  there  are  flowers  and  you  and  song. 


TO  S.  M. 

IF   HE    SHOULD    LIE    A-DYING 

I  AM  not  willing  you  should  go 
Into  the  earth,  where  Helen  went; 
She  is  awake  by  now,  I  know. 
Where  Cleopatra's  anklets  rust 
You  will  not  lie  with  my  consent; 
And  Sappho  is  a  roving  dust; 
Cressid  could  love  again;  Dido, 
Rotted  in  state,  is  restless  still; 
You  leave  me  much  against  my  will, 


THE  PHILOSOPHER 

AND  what  are  you  that,  missing  you, 

I  should  be  kept  awake 
As  many  nights  as  there  are  days 

With  weeping  for  your  sake? 


And  what  are  you  that,  missing  you, 

As  many  days  as  crawl 
I  should  be  listening  to  the  wind 

And  looking  at  the  wall  ? 

I  know  a  man  that's  a  braver  man 

And  twenty  men  as  kind, 
And  what  are  you,  that  you  should  be 

The  one  man  in  my  mind  ? 

Yet  women's  ways  are  witless  ways, 

As  any  sage  will  tell, — 
And  what  am  I,  that  I  should  love 

So  wisely  and  so  well  ? 


26 


FOUR  SONNETS 


LOVE,  though  for  this  you  riddle  me  with  darts, 
And  drag  me  at  your  chariot  till  I  die, —    V 
Oh,  heavy  prince!    Oh,  panderer  of  hearts! —  0" 
Yet  hear  me  tell  how  in  their  throats  they  lie  ^ 
Who  shout  you  mighty:  thick  about  my  hair,  £ 
Day  in,  day  out,  your  ominous  arrows  purr,  l\ 
Who  still  am  free,  unto  no  querulous  care  C 
A  fool,  and  in  no  temple  worshiper!  t) 
I,  that  have  bared  me  to  your  quiver's  fire,'^ 
Lifted  my  face  into  its  puny  rain,  \ 
Do  wreathe  you  Impotent  to  Evoke  Desire^ 
As  you  are  Powerless  to  Elicit  Pain  LA 
(Now  will  the  god,  for  blasphemy  so  brave, ' 
Punish  me,  surely,  with  the  shaft  I  crave!) 


II 

I  THINK  I  should  have  loved  you  presently.  ^ 
And  given  in  earnest  words  I  flung  in  jest;^ 
And  lifted  honest  eyes  for  you  to  see,  & 

•  And  caught  your  hand  against  my  cheek  and 

breast;  b 

And  all  my  pretty  follies  flung  aside ^ 
That  won  you  to  me,  and  beneath  your  gaze, 
Naked  of  reticence  and  shorn  of  pride£. 
Spread  like  a  chart  my  little  wicked  ways. 

\  I,  that  had  been  to  you,  had  you  remained,^ 
But  one  more  waking  from  a  recurrent  dream,\ 
Cherish  no  less  the  certain  stakes  I  gained,  ^ 
And  walk  your  memory's  halls,  austere,  supreme/', 
A  ghost  in  marble  of  a  girl  you  knew  '^\ 
Who  would  have  loved  you  in  a  day  or  two.  [A 


Ill 

OH,  THINK  not  I  am  faithful  to  a  vow!    ** 

Faithless  am  I  save  to  love's  self  alone,    fc 

Were  you  not  lovely  I  would  leave  you  now:  <v 

After  the  feet  of  beauty  fly  my  pwn.  & 

Were  you  not  still  my  hunger's  rarest  food, 

And  water  ever  to  my  wildest  thirst,  d 

I  would  desert  you — think  not  but  I  would!— 

And  seek  another  as  I  sought  you  first,  a 

But  you  are  mobile  as  the  veering  air,  c. 

And  all  your  charms  more  changeful  than  the* 

tide,   « 

Wherefore  to  be  inconstant  is  no  care :  * 
I  have  but  to  continue  at  your  side.  £ 
So  wanton,  light  and  false,  my  love,  are  you,   V 
I  am  most  faithless  when  I  most  am  true.        *^ 


- 


, 

IV 

I  SHALL  forget  you  presently,  my  dear,       f\ 
So  make  the  most  of  this,  your  little  day, 
Your  little  month,  your  little  half  a  year, 
Ere  I  forget,  or  die,  or  move  away, 
And  we  are  done  forever;  by  and  by 

k  I  shall  forget  you,  as  I  said,  but  now, 
If  you  entreat  me  with  your  loveliest  lie 
I  will  protest  you  with  my  favorite  vow. 
/l  would  indeed  that  love  were  longer-lived^L 

if>And  vows  were  not  so  brittle  as  they  are, 
!  But  so  it  is,  and  nature  has  contrived 

,n>To  struggle  on  without  a  break  thus  far, — 
Whether  or  not  we  find  what  we  are  seeking 
Is  idle,  biologically  speaking. 


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